


The Bad Place

by Life as a Sparrow (SelkieLost)



Series: Original Works [5]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelkieLost/pseuds/Life%20as%20a%20Sparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that once a thing bad enough happens in a place, that place is never the same. Neither are the people. (I may continue this eventually) Originally posted on fictionpress</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bad Place

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Riddell is based off of Christie Riddell, a character from some of Charles de Lint's stories. I would highly suggest reading some of them.

Rumor goes that something bad happened in those woods, and if enough bad things happen in a place, if enough blood gets spilled, or a bad enough thing happens in a place, they say the land itself gets a taste for it. Animals won't go near the place, and nothing can grow in such a blood-thirsty place. You find a patch of forest where there ain't nothing but sand, you get the hell outta there and you don't take no souvenirs. Kids on dares go into the woods, desperate to prove themselves; prove their bravery. Most of them come out the next morning; a bit shook up, sure, but still breathing. Still untouched and alive. But there are always a few, I'd guess about one in fifteen, that go into those woods and find that place where the bad things happened and they never come out again. Cops go into their sniffer-dogs each time a distressed parents call them, but they never find hide nor hair of them missin' kids. Most of those cops are the kids who got out of those woods, and them that didn't go on to be law-folk went on the be preacher-men, or nuns.

Me? Oh, I was one of them kids, right enough. I never did get a shiny badge or fancy hat though; couldn't stand all those rules to be a deputy and I sure as hell couldn't stand all the hypocrisy in the churches. No, I'm one of the odd ones out. There are a few of those kids that go into those woods, they don't go missin', but they never really come outta those woods. They live right up next to it; some of the wilder ones even live within its borders. We warn away the tourists that come to see out woods that folk never get come out of; and when the damn fools still want to press on, we lead them around the forest's edges, far away from the Bad Place. We help the cops look for the kids, though both parties know they have a snowball's chance in hell of finding them.

I've heard them in the town, you know. They've started talk about building a monument in the cemetery, a monument to the Lost Ones, all them little kids that went into those woods and never got a chance at havin' a real go at life. That is beside the point, though. You're not here to hear about a monument, though, you're here to learn about the Lost Ones. You're hear to chronicle their stories, the story of our forest; you're here to learn their stories, aren't you Mr. Riddell? Yes, I know about you and your books. There ain't much to do but read out here in the boonies. But it's getting late, and I'm getting old, so I'd best start telling you this story.

The folk that were here before us, the Native Americans, told stories of a creature called a 'wendigo'. The Wendigo was an evil creature that used to be human, before starvation drove it to cannibalism. Now, no matter how much flesh it consumes, it is always hungry, always looking for more food to quench that all-consuming fire in its gut. They say that children give it the most reprieve for that pain, because life has not robbed them of the joy of life, their imaginations, which give their little bodies more life. I've heard a better explanation somewhere, I can't remember where, but it goes that the energy of unspent days is higher in them, and the younger the child, the higher the energy. The higher the energy, the longer the fires of hell burning in their stomachs are banked.

The preacher-men tell us different, as they usually do when faced with pagan worship. They tell us of wingless angels; mean, ugly bastards who can sing sweeter than anything you'd ever heard, who sided on the wrong side of Heaven's war and got tossed down with the Lightbringer. They tell us that if you make and break a deal with the Devil, it'll be them wingless angels that come tear you limb from limb and drag your soul to hell. Most folk stop believing in those tales when they stop believin' in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Their mistake. There's some things in this world that can't be explained by anything except those old tales.

When I took that dare, I was about thirteen years old, just moved into town with my folks and desperate to find friends. I fell in with a couple of girls who liked to party, even then; their names were Lula and Kadie. Lula grew up fast and moved to the city even faster; Kadie settled down with a husband and a couple of ankle biters soon as she graduate high school. They invited me along to a few of their parties when I first got in, and I went along. A couple of guys at a party I tagged along to, must've been the fourth or fifth one, thought it'd be some fun to spook the new girl. They got me pretty buzzed off some 'shine and took me to the forest. Told me there was a big patch of weed growin' somewhere beyond the treeline, told me to run in and grab some. I didn't want to go in, the forest was wicked dark, the trees all grown in close together so no light from the full moon overhead got through, not to mention Lula and Kadie had thought it hilarious to tell me some of the forest's tales before getting here. I'd grown past all the folktales and fairytales and myths I'd lived off of before we'd come here, but those deep, dark woods made me feel like that small child again, curled up in a corner reading away all of her day's problems. Those guys kept goadin', laughin' at how I was too afraid to go in, laughin' at the stupid little city girl. Anger burned away fear and I walked into the forest. Stupid little kid.

I walked straight, straight as anyone could in almost complete darkness. Anything leafy that brushed against me I felt for the distinct shape of the marijuana leaf so I could get the hell outta there.

It felt like an eternity before I saw light. I figured I'd walked out the other side of the forest. I almost tripped in the sand, almost cracked my head open on a gnarled, twisted tree. The moon was bright overhead, everything washed monochrome. White sand, black trees, black shadows. I didn't know where the hell I was, a lost and terrified little girl. I almost screamed when something moved. A black shape rose from the blacker shadows, it's eyes glinting white in the moonlight. Twice as tall as me, arms that hung past its knees, it was covered in short, shaggy fur that obscured its painfully thin frame. Its mouth was too wide, looking like the Joker's scarred mouth, like the Cheshire Cat's grin, stretching from ear to ear, with far too many needle-like teeth crammed in. It moved towards me and I was petrified with fear, as able to move as the redwood trees in California.

It was almost on me when I regained my voice and started to sing, as I did in nightmares. I started with 'Somewhere I Belong', which turned into 'Spanish Ladies', which turned into '21st Century Cure'. Through all these songs it stood there, watching me, listening to me, with moonlight glinting in its eyes and from its finger-long fangs, giving the shaggy fur silver highlights. It was when I started in on 'My Ain' True Love' that it began to sing with me. It tilted it's face to the sky, closed it's moon-silvered eyes, and it began to sing, with it's fangs glinting like diamonds with each silvery note. My voice faded as its voice eclipsed mine. It sounded like everything good and bad in life; love, sunshine on your face, funeral bells, the sound of a knife grating on bone and squelching in blood, rain on your windows as you curl up under a quilt, pages turning in a good book. Moonlight was turning the tears on both our faces into quicksilver when I finally regained control of my limbs and ran away as quickly as I could, breaking free of the spell of it's voice.

I got outta that forest quicker than anyone woulda thought, almost brained myself on a few of them trees, that creature's haunting melody following me the whole way. Took years before I could forget that sound. Now I live here, helpin' the others look for the Lost Ones. Sometimes I'll catch a fragment of song coming from the Bad Place, the place where nothing grows but black trees and blacker shadows, where the ground hasn't known anything but white sand and crimson blood and quicksilver tears for many decades. I've had to stop myself many times; each time I catch that fragment of song, or when the moon is full overhead and the night is somehow darker than a witch's bra. I haven't gone back to that circle of white sand and twisted black trees. It ain't in the cards just yet, but I know I'll sing with it once more before I die. Just like the others.


End file.
